Before I can tell you about The Unnamed, by Joshua Ferris, I have to tell you about my daughter. Not all about her. Not even a lot about her. Just one episode, in fact. One day, when she was about 15, I picked Sarah and her friend, Arianne, up after school. "Dad, what is up. I mean, what is up." Arianne chimed in, "Yeah, what...is....up." And so on for the next 20 minutes or so. Neither of these teenagers was ever close to valley-girldom, so I attributed their fascination with this one phrase to a mild, peer-borne infection of something or other and hoped it was brief. It was, and it was. I'm mentioning it now because I want to convey how striking it was to hear a normal question, what's up, transmuted into an entirely different sort of element simply by undoing the apostrophization and exercising the option of changing it from a question into a statement. Keep that transmutation in mind when you read the next paragraph.
So, the bottom line on The Unnamed is that it's great, if you 1) buy the premise, and 2) accept the characters' response to dealing with said premise. The premise is a sudden occurrence of a disease/condition that requires Tim to walk, regardless of circumstances. There's no precedent to be found in the medical/psychological literature. I could buy that. How the family members - Tim, his wife and daughter - choose to cope with it will strike some as implausible. I don't know if it'll ruin the book, though, because there are some arresting issues addressed, mind vs. body and the nature of love and spousal duty being the most significant. I had some difficulty with #2, but loved the book anyway. You have to care about the characters, and the writing's superb throughout. Especially at the very end. Not to spoil it, but nothing happens. (Reread paragraph one if necessary.)
I'd bet that most people who've also read Ferris's first novel, the darkly comic Then We Came to the End, will prefer that one. As much as I enjoyed it, my vote goes to his new book.
FYI - I'm presently in "'sup" mode. As in, "Dude, 'sup?" "Yo, 'sup." Does away with meaning altogether, reducing the utterance to mere acknowledgment of another's presence. Punctuate it any way you want, depending on how much you're interested in having a conversation. And there's no danger of having one's teenage daughter and her friend go apeshit saying, "Is up." to each other for the better part of an hour. At least there better not be. Hmm, when Tim was first struck by his walking compulsion, his daughter was about Sarah's age when the "What is up" episode occurred. Could it be that his daughter came home from school one day and besieged her father with an extended riff on that phrase? Why didn't Ferris reassure me that that's not what happened? What's up with that? I mean, what is up with that. Wait, I guess it's "what is up with THAT?".
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Two books
I just finished two books, both of which are more than notable.
W.G. Sebald's Austerlitz is a novel for all lovers of serious fiction. It's got the traditional Sebald touch - a few photos to spice up the narrative. But the story itself, about a man coming to terms with his forgotten/ignored early childhood, is a startling examination of memory and its power over us. Along the way, there are more than a few provocative observations on time and architecture. And even though Austerlitz is translated from German, it's not at all stilted. I should tell you that fans of paragraphs and chapters will probably be disappointed. Paragraphs can go on for ten pages or more. There are no - as in zero - chapters. To be fair, there are a couple of what might be called sections. To be fairer, some sentences run to half a page, so that kinda more than cancels out the sections thing. This is a can't miss choice for book groups that refuse to dabble in genre or popular fiction. B/t/w - one of my friends (she teaches literature and also has good taste) finds Sebald's writing too somber. Somber yes, but too somber is up to the reader.
Robert Caro 4-volume biography of Lyndon Johnson is, without qualification, without question, without a doubt, the best biography of all time. And that's in spite of the fact that vol. 4 - the one that covers his entire presidency - hasn't been published yet. (I'm praying that Caro doesn't kick off before he's done, but it could be close.) I was waiting a long time since vol. 3 (2003) for a fix for my Caro jones. The problem is that he's only written one other bio (he was a journalist before becoming a biographer), and that was in 1975, before he started in on LBJ. But I couldn't hold out and had to take on The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York. Its 1162 pages (not including notes, index, etc.) of massivity make it difficult to read in bed and nearly impossible to carry around waiting for the opportunity to sneak in a few pages. On the other hand, it's the second best biographical work of all time. Especially if you're from the New York City/Long Island area. In that case, you will learn an amazing amount about how your surroundings became your surroundings. (What, you thought that someone saw an expanse of sand and declared it Jones Beach?) But even if you've never set foot in New York, this book is a close to a must read as any biography can get. First, Robert Moses was no ordinary urban planner. Take all the baseball players elected to the Hall of Fame up until now and put them together. Comparing that composite to any single player is like comparing Moses to any single planner. And, even better (unless you lived in NYC/LI), both he and his legacy were deeply flawed. That story makes for terrific reading. Best of all, though, is what you'll learn about power. Especially how power works at city and state levels. Caro's journalistic background is evident in his writing. It passes any reasonable academic muster while remaining almost compulsively readable. If you can lift it, read it.
W.G. Sebald's Austerlitz is a novel for all lovers of serious fiction. It's got the traditional Sebald touch - a few photos to spice up the narrative. But the story itself, about a man coming to terms with his forgotten/ignored early childhood, is a startling examination of memory and its power over us. Along the way, there are more than a few provocative observations on time and architecture. And even though Austerlitz is translated from German, it's not at all stilted. I should tell you that fans of paragraphs and chapters will probably be disappointed. Paragraphs can go on for ten pages or more. There are no - as in zero - chapters. To be fair, there are a couple of what might be called sections. To be fairer, some sentences run to half a page, so that kinda more than cancels out the sections thing. This is a can't miss choice for book groups that refuse to dabble in genre or popular fiction. B/t/w - one of my friends (she teaches literature and also has good taste) finds Sebald's writing too somber. Somber yes, but too somber is up to the reader.
Robert Caro 4-volume biography of Lyndon Johnson is, without qualification, without question, without a doubt, the best biography of all time. And that's in spite of the fact that vol. 4 - the one that covers his entire presidency - hasn't been published yet. (I'm praying that Caro doesn't kick off before he's done, but it could be close.) I was waiting a long time since vol. 3 (2003) for a fix for my Caro jones. The problem is that he's only written one other bio (he was a journalist before becoming a biographer), and that was in 1975, before he started in on LBJ. But I couldn't hold out and had to take on The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York. Its 1162 pages (not including notes, index, etc.) of massivity make it difficult to read in bed and nearly impossible to carry around waiting for the opportunity to sneak in a few pages. On the other hand, it's the second best biographical work of all time. Especially if you're from the New York City/Long Island area. In that case, you will learn an amazing amount about how your surroundings became your surroundings. (What, you thought that someone saw an expanse of sand and declared it Jones Beach?) But even if you've never set foot in New York, this book is a close to a must read as any biography can get. First, Robert Moses was no ordinary urban planner. Take all the baseball players elected to the Hall of Fame up until now and put them together. Comparing that composite to any single player is like comparing Moses to any single planner. And, even better (unless you lived in NYC/LI), both he and his legacy were deeply flawed. That story makes for terrific reading. Best of all, though, is what you'll learn about power. Especially how power works at city and state levels. Caro's journalistic background is evident in his writing. It passes any reasonable academic muster while remaining almost compulsively readable. If you can lift it, read it.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Books, beards, and beyond - pt. 1.
Aleksandar Hemon is interviewing for the position of Steve's Favorite Living Author. He probably doesn't know that, but still. Interviewing means I've got to read just about everything he writes, which in turn means I have to read his short stories. Now, Hemon's come out with three books so far, only one of which is short stories. Hardly an onerous task. In fact, I'm only mentioning it so I can express my general low regard for ss's. This is silly, of course. But even when they're good, they generally just don't stick. Not with me, at least. Frankly, not with many people, as far as I can tell. We who relish good fiction can all enjoy short pieces, but how many of us can come up with specific stories we've read once, maybe five or ten years ago, and remember them well enough to express why they touched us? Not many, right? Hence my low regard. There are exceptions, of course. Beginning with David Foster Wallace. Girl With Curious Hair isn't only a wonderful introduction to his work, but the title piece is unforgettable. Especially if you've ever done drugs. And who but DFW could make a story out of a dictionary entry? OK, maybe someone else could, but only Wallace thought of it and pulled it off. (Datum Centurio in Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, if you're interested.) I've dug lots of stories by Alice Munro, Ellen Gilchrist, and William Trevor, too. Not that I remember any, except for Floating Bridge in Munro's Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage.
Which brings me to Hemon. The Question of Bruno was published in 2000; it was his first book. The themes of identity, dislocation, war and death that mark his subsequent novels are all there. As are his understated humor, emotionally nuanced characters, and penchant for adjectives. Blind Jozef Pronek & Dead Souls ranks among the best stories I've ever come across. I've never ventured into lit crit, so forgive me my ignorance if I maintain that I read it as an exploration of displacement and an extended metaphor for death. It's also grimly funny. If you like it, you'll enjoy the rest of Hemon's work; if not, you're wrong.
I've also been thinking quite a bit about beards. Shortly after I ventured down life without lanes (i.e., retirement), I grew a beard to accompany my vintage 1968 moustache and the barbet/soul patch I added shortly before I semi-retired in 2009. We'll get to my present facial hair configuration and its place in the constellation of beards later. For now, I'd observe that new FHCs and retirement seem to go together for lotsa guys.
So what do I think of when I think about beards? Classification, of course. Just what you'd expect from an ex-librarian. Let's first get my approach clear. I don't count moustaches or soul patches as beards, but when accompanied by chin whiskers, they're part of the beard for purposes of classification. Second, I'm not gonna include ethnic takes on/varieties of beards. Ditto for women with beards. I claim no understanding of either realm. And ethnic women's beards is, well, terra incognita. So, when I describe a beard, picture it worn by a white male.
Beards fall into two general categories, full-face and partial face.
Full-face:
The professional. "Professional" doesn't refer to the beard's owner, but to the short, well-polished beard itself. These beards are not grown, they're cultivated. And one doesn't "cut" a professional beard. One doesn't even trim it. No, one grooms it. Maintenance takes some time and rather more attention. A degree of pride and prosperity are hallmarks of its owner. The professional beard is de rigeur for Oregon criminal defense attorneys. They're also popular with economists, though not with those on the margins of opinion. Middle age and up.
The professor. Similar to the professional, but longer. Similar to the sculpture (below), but shorter. As its name suggests, it's a distinctively academic pursuit, though it will appeal to writers, too. The professor has a relatively wide margin for error/inattention, thus the appeal to absent minded profs. Suitable for all ages.
The sculpture. Longer than the professor, shorter than the mountain man. The owner is generally lean and may well have an artistic background. Performing arts, especially. And let's not forget REI workers. High maintenance required, but owners relish the chore. Failure to attend to its upkeep results in a mountain man look; confusion among one's acquaintances (and audience) ensues. The sculpture provides its owner with terrific opportunity to be creative. Which parts long, which short? How long is long? Pointy or not? It's really chin topiary. Not a great look for beginners.
Mountain man. Long, uneven, unkempt. This is the beard for bikers. Not much in the way of upkeep. The owner should be of some size, and that goes for both height and girth. The MM looks ridiculous on anyone under 30. After that, age is irrelevant, as long as you're big.
Santa. Think mountain man, but grey to white, rounded and even. Hell, think Santa. Upper middle age and beyond. Please.
Hermit. Like the mountain man, but without the upkeep. In fact, any upkeep disqualifies a beard from this category. And that includes washing.
I'll deal with partial-face jobbies in my next post. And yes, there is point to this.
Which brings me to Hemon. The Question of Bruno was published in 2000; it was his first book. The themes of identity, dislocation, war and death that mark his subsequent novels are all there. As are his understated humor, emotionally nuanced characters, and penchant for adjectives. Blind Jozef Pronek & Dead Souls ranks among the best stories I've ever come across. I've never ventured into lit crit, so forgive me my ignorance if I maintain that I read it as an exploration of displacement and an extended metaphor for death. It's also grimly funny. If you like it, you'll enjoy the rest of Hemon's work; if not, you're wrong.
I've also been thinking quite a bit about beards. Shortly after I ventured down life without lanes (i.e., retirement), I grew a beard to accompany my vintage 1968 moustache and the barbet/soul patch I added shortly before I semi-retired in 2009. We'll get to my present facial hair configuration and its place in the constellation of beards later. For now, I'd observe that new FHCs and retirement seem to go together for lotsa guys.
So what do I think of when I think about beards? Classification, of course. Just what you'd expect from an ex-librarian. Let's first get my approach clear. I don't count moustaches or soul patches as beards, but when accompanied by chin whiskers, they're part of the beard for purposes of classification. Second, I'm not gonna include ethnic takes on/varieties of beards. Ditto for women with beards. I claim no understanding of either realm. And ethnic women's beards is, well, terra incognita. So, when I describe a beard, picture it worn by a white male.
Beards fall into two general categories, full-face and partial face.
Full-face:
The professional. "Professional" doesn't refer to the beard's owner, but to the short, well-polished beard itself. These beards are not grown, they're cultivated. And one doesn't "cut" a professional beard. One doesn't even trim it. No, one grooms it. Maintenance takes some time and rather more attention. A degree of pride and prosperity are hallmarks of its owner. The professional beard is de rigeur for Oregon criminal defense attorneys. They're also popular with economists, though not with those on the margins of opinion. Middle age and up.
The professor. Similar to the professional, but longer. Similar to the sculpture (below), but shorter. As its name suggests, it's a distinctively academic pursuit, though it will appeal to writers, too. The professor has a relatively wide margin for error/inattention, thus the appeal to absent minded profs. Suitable for all ages.
The sculpture. Longer than the professor, shorter than the mountain man. The owner is generally lean and may well have an artistic background. Performing arts, especially. And let's not forget REI workers. High maintenance required, but owners relish the chore. Failure to attend to its upkeep results in a mountain man look; confusion among one's acquaintances (and audience) ensues. The sculpture provides its owner with terrific opportunity to be creative. Which parts long, which short? How long is long? Pointy or not? It's really chin topiary. Not a great look for beginners.
Mountain man. Long, uneven, unkempt. This is the beard for bikers. Not much in the way of upkeep. The owner should be of some size, and that goes for both height and girth. The MM looks ridiculous on anyone under 30. After that, age is irrelevant, as long as you're big.
Santa. Think mountain man, but grey to white, rounded and even. Hell, think Santa. Upper middle age and beyond. Please.
Hermit. Like the mountain man, but without the upkeep. In fact, any upkeep disqualifies a beard from this category. And that includes washing.
I'll deal with partial-face jobbies in my next post. And yes, there is point to this.
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